


At The End of All Things, There is Love

by Starships



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Abuse of Both Italics and Parentheses, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fluff and Humor, Multi, Scion Party, The Great Alphinaud Estinien Crush of 2020, The Twins Shall Troll Until They Die, Underage Drinking, Valentione's Fic Exchange, weaponized cuteness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-19 11:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22710445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starships/pseuds/Starships
Summary: Tataru Taru transforms Revenant's Toll into a celebration for Valentione's Day, surprising each of her Scions with a joyful gift in turn.Not all the gifts are appropriate.
Relationships: Tataru Taru/Everyone's Muscles, Urianger Augurelt/Thancred Waters
Comments: 7
Kudos: 57
Collections: Valentine's Fic Exchange 2020





	At The End of All Things, There is Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosamynal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosamynal/gifts).



> For Ro, who wanted a Tataru sponsored Valentione's event for the Scions. Mal is her thighlanderman, and he is a rascal.
> 
> In this fic world, everyone lives, and everything is kind.

Tataru Taru needed a man.

Badly.

Not just any man would do -- she needed a strapping lad, muscles bulging every which way, dashing in the early morning rays of light. Partial to fine ladies and finer whiskeys, at home in a bar fight or the seat of the Sultana, gleaming like he had been oiled the second his armor came off. That kind of thing.

Ideally, someone like Alphinaud but in the body of… oh, Gaius, mayhap, or Estinien.

Yet here she was, bereft.

Manless.

She eyed the dingy counter of Seventh Heaven surviving its umpteenth wipe down for the day and its single occupant: topsy-turvy on a wibbly wobbly bar stool (that Mal had been swearing he'd fix for the last seven moons, thank you very much) with snowy locks fisted into disarray and a neck tattoo Urianger once confessed while deep, deep into his cups he would like to bite.

She sighed.

Considered her options.

She would even admit to pacing, just a bit, before giving in.

Thancred would have to do.

* * *

"Absolutely _not_."

"Absolutely _yes_ , Thancred, honestly."

"No!" His voice was nearly a shriek. It would be embarrassing, were there any witnesses.

"Come now, I never ask you for anything--"

"Now you listen here, you are _extremely_ demanding--"

"Nonsense! Just this little bitty _eensy_ favor that _no one but you can do_!"

Despite himself, he paused; the need to be needed pulled deeply at his gut, but he dug both metaphorical and literal heels in, steeling himself against his tiny opponent.

Her sunrise pink hair was in braided pigtails today. Ryne or the Warrior, he couldn't be sure. By the Twelve and Wicked White, they should both hang -- making Tataru cuter than was absolutely necessary was a criminal offense.

They knew how hard it made it to say no to her.

They _knew._

"No," he managed weakly, somehow.

Tataru smelled blood in the water. She turned lilac eyes on him and let them widen and mist over -- _he was so, so screwed_ \-- and she said the only thing he could never refuse from a pretty lady.

"Please?"

* * *

While on step seven of twelve of his Valentione’s Treasure Hunt, Urianger halted, arrested by a smell he could not refuse: Sujeonggwa. (Y’shtola had done her best to recreate it for him after her time in Doma, but the tea had not been as rich and deep as what Lady Yugiri used to brew for him.) An unusual enough smell on any given day, it was even more peculiar today -- not only Valentione’s, when Eorzeans tended towards the atypically sweet confections he had never enjoyed, but also when Revenant’s Toll was home to virtually no Domans, most of them having long since sailed home.

His feet followed his nose, chasing ginger and cinnamon deeper into the Waking Sands. Three rights and a left to his customary room, two locks and a rune of protection later, he spots it next to his unkempt bed and dirty linens: a mug of steaming Doman tea, and a note.

A cipher

A _Ronkan_ cipher.

And fourteen words in Feo-Ul’s unmistakable chicken scratch that scared the aether out of him, even as he gleefully juggled his cloak and the too-hot Sujeonggwa in his haste to leave

**_Fun, yes? We hid the map under our handsomest shrubbery, we did. coME SEE_ **

* * *

Ryne bopped her head around, singing the filthy Skallic shanty Emet-Selch had taught her (to sing only when out of hearing range of her fathers, he had said, eyes stern and glinting with mischief all at once). It had taken her three tries, but she _finally_ had her hair in an acceptable fishtail braid, laced through with coral ribbons Urianger had given her on her last name day. Her dress was pressed and wrinkle-free, her knives polished to a mirror finish. 

She took a deep breath, shaking her shoulders out until even her fingers felt loose. 

She stood on her toes, feeling her weight transfer within the bones of her feet. 

Her first Valentione’s on the Source.

She was ready.

She stepped out of her room, well-worn boots silent on the gray stone as she passed Urianger’s door; he was muttering to himself within, which she had to admit was not an unusual occurrence. Tataru’s plan required both absolute secrecy and extreme theatrics, and she was ready to deliver on both as needed. 

Step One: Hide in the palm fronds to verify Urianger departs for the First.

Step Two: If he does not, flail about in magical hysterics until he is convinced she is too weak to remain on the Source and whisks her home (dramatically, she imagines; swooping his enormous cloak over her to keep her safe. It’s always so _warm_ inside, and she loves to nap surrounded by the smell of family.)

Step Three: If all else fails, summon Emet-Selch as a backup plan and use her latest lesson from Tataru — pouting.

Steps two and three proved fortunately unnecessary, though if she were honest with herself, she was disappointed to not test her acting skills. Alphinaud had had all kinds of opinions on the proper way to flounce, even if he was sweet and believed it was only for playacting the script she had found in the Bookman’s Shelves (A dashing Knight saves her Prince from harm, and they ride off into the sunset with fourteen stolen Amaros and, somehow, a single Porxie) and not for the purpose of getting her dads to do whatever she wants.

Urianger rushed past her, not noticing her abysmal superb hiding place behind the sparse foliage. He was ticking off significant dates in Ronkan history on his fingertips. 

Ryne snickered and made to report the success of Operation: Lure The Princess to Tataru.

* * *

Tataru had called this Operation: Rescue the Princess, and Thancred had rolled his eyes; despite himself, however, he was excited.

It had been so long since he had been able to be dashing without the fate of the worlds hanging in the balance.

Pixies were _notorious_ for kidnapping. They frequently bound their unsuspecting prey in yalms and yalms of vine, reading jaunty limericks and riddles in perpetuity until one solved it (which riddle was the _it_ they decided was the key to escape was anyone’s guess). Oh, they would feed and care for their victims, to be sure -- but how many Fae limericks could _you_ survive before you begged for death?

Urianger had made it weeks, but Thancred himself had snapped in ninety minutes. 

_Pixies._

Whoever had sent to Tataru for help, he would help. (Though didn’t Feo Ul only send Mal’s messages along?) He couldn’t help picturing what she would look like; golden eyes and downy blonde hair, long limbs--

He turned his key in the lock of the Bookman’s Shelves, mystified as to why the Pixies loved to lure people here so much while he and Urianger were away. It was significantly more comfortable than where they usually kept their captives, and this would be the third time. Granted, the first two had been Urianger, but Thancred still felt justified in his assessment. Typically they were imprisoned in a too shallow pond, because “humans love water”, nevermind how deep the fear of drowning from the Fu’ath was. The water was always _just_ too cold to be comfortable, but not cold enough to harm, because Pixies had mastered the art of annoying him to insanity. 

The massive wooden door squeaked upon opening, and he frowned. They hadn’t been on the Source so long their home had fallen into disarray, surely; he would have to oil the hinges while he was here. Their return should be spick and span, their only tasks cooking dinner and enjoying each other’s company by the fire.

To Thancred’s consternation, the only other living soul inside the Shelves was Urianger, sipping an amber tea that smelled of ginger and bent in half to study a pile of maps. He was too intent in his work to notice his friend’s entrance, so Thancred pointedly cleared his throat. 

“Tataru said the pixies had someone here,” he said, shuffling his feet awkwardly. He didn’t mention it was a girl, or that his heart was beating faster at the unexpected and indomitable presence in front of him.

Urianger’s right eyebrow rose, the one Thancred always wanted to nip at until his friend wiped that look off his face, and they regarded each other steadily. “Curious. Mistress Tataru gifted upon me a Ronkan cipher, yet the maps required do not seem to be present.”

Thancred’s fingers twitched, hungry for something familiar. The hilt of his blade, maybe. It was a restlessness he was not accustomed to.

“I could help you find them, you know,” he offered, the words rushed and stilted.

The broad smile given in reply sets him aflame.

Whisper-quiet footfalls echoed across the stones as Urianger stepped forward, capturing his restless hand with his own. Thancred’s nerves felt like levin, and he held his breath as he waited for the bolt to strike them both.

“Thy assistance would be most welcome, mine friend.”

They don’t let each other go as they resume the dubious hunt Tataru had set them on. If they realized their quest was a falsehood, well; neither of them saw fit to mention it.

* * *

Alphinaud was being weird.

Really, really weird.

Every time Alisaie would look at him, his eyes would dart around looking for an escape, and he got that high scarlet flush on his cheeks. Not the low flush, mind you; the low flush happened when he looked at Mal, and the high flush happened when he looked at Estinien.

She knew him better than anyone on any of the stars, and he was hiding something.

But all he was doing was reading a book that Tataru had given him for the holiday. Some stuffy Allagan nonsense she found in a tomb, or a crypt, or a cave. Somewhere dank where the mud was exciting and the history was not.

When he read it, his feet would kick around from their position off the floor (they both complained often after their late-in-life absent growth spurt) and his index finger would hover over the pages, radiating a palpable agitation. It made her want to hit something. 

Finally, she used her words and asked.

“Whatcha readin’?”

Her forced casual air must have failed, because he squawked in surprise and slammed the massive tome closed. His bangs fluttered over his heated cheeks in the resulting breeze.

“Nothing!” he said, voice an octave or two too high.

“Uh huh,” she said flatly. 

“It’s nothing, Alisaie. Ronkan history. Stuffy, uh. You know. Stuffy stuff.”

“Stuffy… stuff. The book is Allagan, you know.”

“Yes, right! That’s what I said.”

He stomped away, trying for an unaffected air, but his legs were far too stiff and his arms flung out like he was puffing his chest or indignantly flapping too-short chocobo wings. He looked ridiculous instead of nonchalant, and Alisaie knew in an instant that if anyone could help her see through his nonsense, it was the epitome of no nonsense herself, Y’shtola Rhul.

Who was somehow absent from the Sands, despite their planned party in a scant few bells.

Thancred and Urianger were mysteriously gone, Ryne was in the courtyard sparring with Emet-Selch (and she wasn’t going to ask _him_ , anyway), and her usual confidant was the very source of her consternation.

She huffed.

She threw herself onto the barstool next to Tataru, signaling with a wave for mead. 

“Alphinaud is up to something.”

Tataru smirked, clinking their glasses together. “Oh, I know, love.”

Alisaie perked up immediately, sitting up ramrod straight as though a thunder spell struck her spine. She leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, “You do?”

“Aye,” Tataru said with a cheeky wink. “You’ll never get the book away from him, though.”

If there was one thing that guaranteed Alisaie would do something, it was telling her she couldn’t. 

She kissed Tataru on the cheek, downing the rest of her mead in one large swallow. 

“I’ll see you at the party,” she said, striding off to humiliate herself in the name of uncovering her brother’s secrets.

* * *

Alphinaud had read page 63 nearly a dozen times, but he couldn’t turn the page. Estinien’s heartbreak when Aymeric had been stabbed -- it was too profound, too raw. His heart was beating out of his chest, a ruckus surely heard as far away as the market. What would it be like, what would it _feel_ like, to have someone yearn for him so? The way that he--

“There you are!”

His sister stood before him, clutching a sticky monstrosity that looked enormously like goobbue dung. 

“ _What is that!”_ he yelped, scuttling back from the mass. Alisaie held it so proudly, which could only mean…

“Angelo version 2.0!” she declared, entirely too self-satisfied. “Isn’t he wonderful?”

He was, if possible, worse than the first version. 

“Tataru got me clay to practice. There’s porcelain silt from Doma, but _oh_ it looks so expensive, Alphinaud. I wanted to learn on the earthenware. I knew it would take time to improve, but he’s already so beautiful!”

She was rambling. And blatantly lying. 

_This_ Angelo was definitely fecal matter at best.

Before he could protest, Alisaie had plunked the still wet mass in his hands, and with a yelp he dropped--

_No!_

But his sister was just as quick as she always had been. She had his precious Valentione’s gift in her greedy hands as swiftly as a raptor strike, and before he could shout she was off in a dead sprint toward the Crystal Tower with both his book and his dignity.

He dropped Angelo’s unfortunate cousin without a second thought and took after her.

* * *

Despite running as fast as his body was able, Alisaie was seated comfortably on an amber crystalline formation and was easily three chapters in by the time he arrived.

“This is a biography on Estinien!” she accused. 

He hung his head. “Yes.”

“It’s written by hand!”

Also yes. He didn’t bother saying so out loud.

“Did you know that he and Aymeric are together?”

“ _What!_ They are not!”

“They _are._ It says so right here--” and she flips to the end of the book like a _heathen_ , “see, right here. It’s even dirty.”

His face had surely become a Calamity of fire. 

“I, uh. Hadn’t gotten that far.”

“That far in your Ronkan research, you mean.”

“It’s Allagan,” he corrected without thought. 

She snorted, closing the book and handing it back to her twin. “Well, I won’t tell the others how… consumptive your research has become over the holiday.” She leaned in close and gave him a wink that made him decidedly queasy. “But I’m going to ask for anatomy books once I’ve mastered clay. Do you think I could draw Estinien, if I can sculpt him?”

He was going to die.

“How _big_ do you think he is?”

He was going to kill his sister first.

* * *

The party was wild by Scion standards, rum and whiskey and mead flowing freely. Their friends from all across the Source had come as celebrants, joining the couples dancing throughout Revenant’s Toll. Seventh Heaven was crammed with sweaty bodies and a riotous echo of laughter, and Tataru’s heart was suffused with light. 

Her family was here. Oh, not everyone was physically present -- not everyone was even still alive. But in these liminal moments of uncomplicated happiness, she fancied she could feel the Lifestream pulse with them; it made her blood sing and her heart ache with an unnameable nostalgia, a razor’s edge of emotion that tasted suspiciously of hope.

She climbed atop Aymeric’s shoulders via a complicated route of chair to table to elezen to taller elezen. He obliged her with a princely smile, as he always did. She was not subtle as she squeezed his massive arms; the face he made as Estinien snorted behind them was worth it.

“Scions!” Her voice was thunder, and the room fell silent. “Comrades. _Friends_. We are here today for Valentione’s because we know love, just as we know each other. Every journey we take is for the faces and hearts around us. Every time we come home, it’s for love.”

_Hear, hear!_

Even Y’shtola had emerged from her secluded, Tataru Taru sanctioned Nap Room to toast, eyes shining as her world was lit by the joyous aether around her. Hien and Lyse were strong arming her into a boisterous hug, and if her eyes did not deceive her, Thancred and Urianger were holding hands somewhere behind Gosetsu’s massive body. 

“The magic of being in this moment is impossible to capture in words,” Tataru continued. “All the same, know this: you are loved. Here, and now. Before, and ever after. To love!” 

_To love!_

She tipped her cup back, and the fire inside her could light the stars.

To love, indeed.


End file.
